I’ve been a loudmouth for a very long time. As with other dominant traits, I trace this one straight back to my childhood where, having to compete with eight siblings for food, clothing, and parental attention, I instinctively knew I had to differentiate myself somehow. The quest for attention was, quite possibly, also fed by the fact that I was born at the tippy tail end of the Baby Boom. It is precisely my age group that seized upon Punk Rock, shaved our heads, and lashed out in our own fashion back in the late seventies and early eighties. By the time I made it to the University of South Florida in the early eighties, I was an expert at leading with my chin and, not long into my stint at that place, I was afforded a weekly opportunity to spout my thoughts via a column, dubbed Bloody Monday, that ran in the student daily, The Oracle. I wielded my pen mightily, taking on the frats, the Catholic Church, and any other organization that spurred my ire. Letters poured in in response—some supported me, many condemned me, and at least once someone said I was being prayed for. I left that beloved writing gig in a huff, after an editor refused to run a particular column he deemed inappropriate.
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